Orchard Memories
Much of the pleasure of abundance comes from
giving it away.
I have about 10 fruit and nut trees in my backyard, but this year, like most years, wasn't a good one. Most of the peaches were as small as apricots and tended to be shriveled, or nibbled by a bug or bird—I never figured out quite which. There were also a couple dozen pears, but I didn't get a bite of even one. All were eaten by something or fell and were carried off—as it turned out, by my dog, who I never even realized was a herbivore.
Every year but one has been bad, because I haven't worked on creating a tree windbreak on the west side, as my real-estate agent Shaylin told me to. But that one year has made the absurd, inappropriate notion of my buying a piece of land worthwhile.
That year was two years ago. Everyone in Deming must remember it. As I was told when I moved here, it happens about every seven years: Apricots, peaches, Santa Rosa plums, almonds, apples and pears all grew the way they were supposed to. They created a memory that will last the rest of my life as a kind of simulacrum of an earthly paradise—something in pretty short supply here.
Part of the pleasure of having fruit and nut-bearing trees is watching them grow. In April there are blossoms, first the greenish-white dots of the plum petals, delicate as rain on glass, and then the others—the almond branches knit with pure white flowers, the sweet-smelling pinkish apricot blossoms, the artificial-looking reddish pink of the peaches, and the lush Parisian perfume of the apples.
Then you get to watch the fruit appear. The peaches and apricots first appear as vague, velvety, fleshy nubs. The pears are almost wooden-looking greenish-brown knobs. Half of what it's about is anticipating and counting every single fruit in advance.
The first fruit that came along were the apricots, on the largest of all the trees, in the middle of them. That year there were hundreds of the luscious, bite-sized packages of flavor, and they all got ripe and had to be eaten in about three days before they spoiled.
So I went rushing around delivering bags of them to everyone I could think of. Some went to neighbors, some to regular friends, some to church friends, some to a soup kitchen, and others to farm workers. I felt wonderfully earthy and generous, although it was really the trees that were generous.
I also had two peach trees that bore fruit in July. They were so full of peaches that they virtually groaned under the weight, and I had to prop up some of the branches with a piece of rolled-up fence that lay nearby. I was the proud bearer of paper bags of dozens of these round, rosy-tinged globes of fruit to a few people, who were pleased to get them. It's an abundant, thumping, rotund way to celebrate the peak of summer.
I also made the momentous decision to make preserves from one of the trees, for the first time in my life. My elderly friend Verna, who grew up in Deming, gave me the Mason jars, a kettle to boil them in and a great recipe that she had added orange juice to. As a child, she lived in an old house on Eighth Street with peach trees that has recently been transformed into a fantastic gift and antique shop.
I was all trepidation as I read and re-read the recipe, but finally did it, using nothing but the natural pectin. Every jar came out perfectly, due to beginners' luck and the extra care I put into every step of the hours-long process. I remember sitting in my living room and hearing the lid of one jar cooling on my kitchen shelf sealing itself with a loud "THUP!!" I thought it was the sound of a lid popping up and hitting the ceiling. This must be one of the most satisfying sounds known to man, a proof of competence and the sound of fulfillment and intactness at the harvest curve of the year.
I had a couple-dozen jars to eat myself or give away here or send to friends and family on the other side of the country. They were beautiful not just for their looks and flavor but for the piece of sunlight that was preserved for the dark days of winter.
The plums appeared at some point, I don't remember when, but were worthless because they were so sour you couldn't eat them.
The almonds came along next. The green outer shell opens wide on one side when ripe, revealing the inner shell—the almond-shaped casing enclosing the nut. They are crisp and clean-lined, and elegant in their asymmetry.
One evening I thought I could go out and spend about 10 minutes filling a little plastic bowl with almonds, as I had for a few days. But I found myself instead spending close to an hour on just one of the trees, standing perched on a metal lawn chair. Over and over I'd be picking in one section of the tree, straining to grab a few beyond my reach near the top of the foliage or struggling through tangled branches to pluck some at the center of the tree, when I would see yet another at eye-level or right close to my elbow that I hadn't noticed. They just kept coming.
I had the slightly delirious sensation that the almonds were opening up right before my eyes, while I was picking them. They were like flowers in a garden or stars appearing at night. I was caught up in this dream of abundance as if I were caught in a net full of silver flashing fish or suspended in a glass of sparkling seltzer water. It was enchanting. I just kept on picking.
At one moment I looked over to see the pear tree full of ripening pears and said to myself, "Oh, no!" All I could think of was how I'd have to run around finding people to bring them to. As it turned out, I slowed my efforts and allowed some of those to rot.
All that were left that year were about a dozen small apples on my tree, which I added to my cabbage salad for a kind of mock-Waldorf salad in the fall.
This year was kind of a dud, as I said. And it was not just because I didn't have much to eat but because I had none to give away. It's not just a pious sentiment. About two-thirds of the satisfaction of having fruit is being able to share it with others, the feeling of parting and imparting that makes you feel full.
Borderlines columnist Marjorie Lilly works in Deming.